You Know Me Better
by hangingfire
Summary: While being the Master's prisoner, the Doctor has learned the connection between pop music and world domination.


**Title**: You Know Me Better  
**Rating**: PG-13 for enormous angst and the destruction of a nation.  
**Summary**: The Doctor has learned the connection between pop music and world domination.  
**Note**: Takes place between the end of "The Sound of the Drums" and the beginning of "The Last of the Time Lords". Inspired by Róisín Murphy's "You Know Me Better". Not a songfic per se; it's an attempt to render in writing a scene that was strongly visual/auditory and cinematic in my mind. And I apologise to any fans of the bands mentioned in this thing. They're all favourites of mine as well.  
**Disclaimer**: No affiliation with Doctor Who or the BBC. No money is being made from this.

* * *

There's always music on board the Valiant. The Doctor's become accustomed to this, and by now he's become especially attuned to the type of music. It tells him what he needs to anticipate. 

It's sort of funny, really. Your typical movie villain's got a thing for classical; pops out the Vivaldi or the Puccini while he slices and dices or poisons or strangles, or he has his murders committed while he's attending a performance of _The Magic Flute_. Not the Master. He's a more modern sort of chap. Fits in with the rest of this particular regeneration: the broad smile, the designer suit, the book, the blonde wife.

Most of the time it's neither here nor there -- pop or rock music that fades into the background and that the Doctor can ignore while he keeps his aged head low and hopes that nothing will set the Master off today.

But then, inevitably, something does, and that's when the glam, the disco, and the Europop comes out.

The Doctor is really starting to hate the following: The Scissor Sisters. Kylie Minogue. The Rogue Traders. (That was where it all went straight to hell, Lucy Saxon dancing as her dear husband unleashed the Toclafane.) Goldfrapp. O-Zone. Pretty much anyone who's ever been even remotely near the Eurovision song contest. Ziggy Stardust-era David Bowie. (And that's a shame; he'd liked him so much before.) Early Roxy Music. Early Brian Eno.

Well. _Hate_ is a bit of a strong word, and he's been trying to avoid that sort of thing, even in his own head. More precisely, he's grown to associate that sort of music with very, very bad things.

So it's with a really awful sense of dread that he wakes up to the sound of some new music, music which is, regrettably, very disco-ish. Female singer. Heavy bass line that he can feel through the floor and that jolts his old bones with every thump. He curls up on the floor, burying his head in his arms and hoping that maybe this is just a --

"_...when it comes to you! I can't win! 'Cause you know me better than I know myself!_"

Oh no, he's not just dancing, he's _singing_. This is no good at all.

Rough hands grab hold of him, drag him out and sling him into the wheelchair. He can't help groaning a little at the pain of it.

"_You know me better than I know myself! You know me the best!_" The Master turns in a neat little spin and comes to a stop in front of the Doctor. "Hallo, Doctor! Guess where we are today." He doesn't wait for even a semblance of a reply. "Japan! Come see."

And he shoves the wheelchair to the nearest window, all the while still singing. "_...things will never be the same again after tonight..._"

"Like the new music, Doctor? Irish girl; Róisín Murphy's her name. Sadly, she won't be making any more albums -- caught up in that first ten percent. Such a shame. If only I'd known, I'd have made sure she was safe."

The Doctor's knees hit the wall under the window, not for the first time, and he looks out, dreading what he will see.

He hadn't realised that it was evening; Tokyo below is a field of glittering little lights and neon. Not so glittering as it once was, perhaps; the depredations of the Toclafane have had their effect, after all. But it's still very beautiful, still speaks of people trying to make a go of their lives despite being in constant fear. His hand has drifted up to the window before he's even aware that he's moved. It's that urge to reach out, to comfort, to connect. Futile as it is, under the circumstances.

The Master's still humming and dancing, a little soft-shoe across the bridge. This must be some kind of extended dance-mix of the song, because it's been going on longer than it has any right to.

"_...let me see this through, you know me better than I know myself..._"

The song's no accident, the Doctor realises; and there's a truth to it, a truth going back over nine hundred years, and the truth is bitter when he hears the Master belting out, "_Though I believe the friendship can survive, maybe it won't if we do or we don't..._"

That stings. It really does.

"You know what I'm going to do, don't you, Doctor? Oh, of course you do. We've been chasing each other across the stars for too, too long for you not to know." He slides across the floor, coming to a stop next to the wheelchair. "Well? Aren't you going to tell me to stop? It's your line, Doctor."

The Doctor shakes his head; his hearts are breaking again (how many times, he wonders, can they break like this). It doesn't matter. Whatever he says, whatever he does, the Master will do whatever he wants and laugh in the Doctor's face.

"Not playing today? Oh, that's terrible. How you could possibly pass up a chance to plead for the lives of these sad apes? Not a word? Nothing?"

And then, because he really can't help it, he murmurs, "Please don't."

"What's that? Sorry, couldn't hear you, come again?"

"Please. Don't."

The Master stands there, thoughtfully rubbing his chin, and for just a fraction of a second the Doctor wonders if maybe, in his mad capriciousness, he might change his mind. One never knew, after all --

In the end, though, he's not really surprised when all the lights of Tokyo go out, and he's not surprised either when the city erupts in flame. He's not surprised when, as the Valiant pulls back, he sees that the entire archipelago is aflame, which he actually hadn't imagined was possible, but trust the Master to come up with some way to pull it off.

He closes his eyes, bows his head. Tries to ignore the bass-beat that's still shaking every surface of the Valiant, the cheerful humming and soft-shoe shuffle he can hear behind him. He wishes the Master would surprise him someday. Do something he doesn't expect. Something brilliant.

But he won't. The Doctor knows better.


End file.
